LIBRARY 

OF  THE 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA. 

GIFT  0V 


Received 


Accession 


-    Class  No. 


NAHDA 


A  Story  of 
Spanish= 
American 
Life  *  *  * 


T*HE  paper-cutter  on  the  cover  of  this  little  pastoral  is 
a  fragment  of  one  of  the  old  beams   (11x13  inches  and 
nearly  30  feet  in  length),  from  the  San  Luis  Rey 
Mission,  founded  June  13,  1798.     Tradition  tells  us 
this   beam  was   hewn  from  the  forest  of  Palomar 
Mountain,  where  it  was  sprinkled  with  holy  water, 
placed  on  the  shoulders  of  faithful  Indians,  and  not 
allowed  to  touch  the  ground  until  the  sacred  mission 
site,  twenty-five  miles  distant,  was  reached,  relays  of 
burden-bearers  being   stationed   along   the   route   to 
relieve  their  weary  brethren.      Some  time  ago,  the 
Author,  wishing  to  preserve  one  of  these  old  beams, 
purchased  it  from  Padre  O'Keefe  for  the  hall-way  of 
Warland  Tower,  and  this  souvenir  is  a  fragment  of  the 
same.    The  book-mark  is  a  piece  of  the  mission  ceiling 
which  was  cast  aside  at  the  restoration  some  time  ago. 

.\, 


C 


ERRAT 


Page  20,  the  fourth  line  should  read, 

"Kingly  fruit  for  wayside  beggar". 
Page  21,  the  fourth  line  should  read, 

"Cradle  of  the  Spring-time  flowers". 
Page  32,  the  eleventh  line  should  read, 

"In  the  one  who  soon  brought  ruin". 
Page  32,  the  twentieth  line  should  read, 

"We  would  roam  the  fields  together". 


g^v 

SSITY  } 

.X 


llfttfe. 


CTY- 


\ t  Ctr  I  a/n  1    O  o  uj  t\" 

tc   10  \  S 


II 


NAHDA 


A  Story  of 
Spanish/  American  Life 


BY 


ISAAC  JENKINSONMFRAZEE 


With  Illustrations  by  the  Author 


OCEANSIDE,  CAL.: 
THE  BLADE  PRINTING  CO. 

1898 


This  little  volume  is  affectionately 
dedicated  to  the  good  wife  who  shared 
with  me  the  deprivations  as  well  as 
pleasures  of  ranching 

"  'Mong  the  hills  of  Casa  Loma" 

-THE  AUTHOR 


S*\\ 8 R A 

OF  THB 

I  UNIVERSITY 


NAHDA 


CHAPTER  I. 

'Mongf  the  hills  of  Casa  Loina, 
Where  the  wild  bee  sips  the  honey 
From  the  dewy  lips  of  sages, 
Dwelt  a  maiden,  with  her  father 
Pedro    Gomez,    the    sheep-herder. 
When  her  eyes  first  ope'd  to  sunlight, 
Life  and  Death  met  at  her  cradle: 
Death  smoothed  out  a  mother's  pillow — 
Life  found  there  a  little  orphan; 
One  so  little,  that  they  called  her, 
Half  in  pity,  half  derision — 
Little  "Nahda",*  which  translated 
From  the  Spanish,  means  but  "nothing-''. 
Like  a  shepherd,   whose  long-  seeking, 
Finds  a  lost  lamb  in  the  thicket, 
Finds  a  ewe-lamb  without  mother; 
So  old  Pedro  hid  his  lambkin 
With  his  sorrow,  in  hie  bosom. 

*  The  Author  has  taken  the  liberty  to  change  the 
spelling  of  the  Spanish  word  "Nada",pronounced  Natha, 
to  "Nahda",  the  local  pronunciation. 

7 


And  a  milk-goat,  white  as  lilies, 
Was  half  mother  to  the  orphan; 
Learned  to  love  the  little  foundling, 
Bleat  and  cry  for  little  Nahda 
As  she  would  for  her  own  offspring. 
Unused  hearts  like  locks,  grow  rusty; 
All  in  vain  we  seek  an  entrance 
Till  we  find  the  key  of  Sorrow. 
Thus  it  was  with  Pedro  Gomez, 
And  the  love  he  bore  his  helpmate. 
True,  that  love  could  ne'er  be  doubted; 
Yet  'twas  love's  procrastination, 
Kind  words  left  until  the  morrow — 
At  her  death,  the  morrow  came. 
She  had  gained  her  stoic  patience 
From  her  brave  old  Indian  mother, 
While  a  trusting  faith  was  given 
As  her  own  paternal  blessing, 

For  Don  of  Pala  Mission 

Was  indeed  her  very  father; 
And  'twas  in  the  holy  shadow 
Of  that  Mission's  quaint  old  belfry, 
She  found  rest  from  all  her  burdens. 
Pedro  took  his  little  burden 
In  his  strong  arms  to  his  bosom, 
Wept  o'er  it,  his  tears  of  penance, 
Tears  o'er  Love's  lost  golden  moments; 
And  'tis  well— for  tears  of  sorrow 
Prove  our  hearts  are  homes  of  angels, 
Who,  though  transient  guests,  will  linger 
8 


Seeking  shelter  in  the  portals. 
Opened  by  the  key  of  sorrow, 
Angel  feet  may  find  an  entrance 
To  a  spacious,  garnished  chamber. 
Fit  home  for  that  Man  of  Sorrows, 
He  who  wept  at  tomb  of  Lazarua. 


CHAPTER  II. 

Sadly  to  his  home  returning1, 
To  the  little  thatched  adobe, 
Pedro  found  no  kiss  of  welcome, 
No  dear  word  of  happy  greeting; 
And  the  blossoms  in  her  garden — 
Flowers  she  had  watched  and  cared  for, 
Watered  through  the  long-  dry  summer; 
Hollyhocks  and  bright  geraniums, 
Violets  and  morning-glories, 
Four-o'clocks  and  gay  nasturtiums, 
Golden  pansies,  golden  poppies, 
And  the  white  rose  on  the  trellis — 
All  with  dew-drops  seemed  to  glisten, 
'Twas  the  tears  upon  his  eyelids. 
In  the  room  all  hope  had  vanished; 
Through  the  little  western  window 
Faded  out  the  day  in  darkness, 
And  the  crucifix  in  the  corner 
Caught  the  only  gleam  of  sunlight. 
'Twas  the  sign  of  Hope  in  darkness; 
And  the  first  time,  since  in  childhood 
He  had  knelt  at  knee  of  Mother, 
Pedro  Gomez  found  in  prayer 
Consolation  for  his  sorrow. 
10 


As  in  death  the  aloe  bloometh, 
Prom  that  hour  a  new  life  opened; 
And  his  last  days  were  his  best  days. 
Pedro's  love  grew  warm  and  tender 
For  the  babe  within  his  bosom, 
And  in  after  years  grew  dearer, 
As  care  leads  to  love's  fruition. 
Nahda  thrived  in  his  protection 
As  a  wild  flower  'neath  an  oak  tree, 
And  her  first  days  were  all  sunshine, 
As  bright  morn  precedes  dark  nightfall. 
Slipped  away  the  flying  moments 
Shod  wish  tinkling  golden  sandals. 
And  the  music  of  tame  wild-birds 
Taught  her  how  to  sing  of  Nature, 
Trill  of  mocking-bird  and  linnet, 
Pipe  of  tufted  quail  in  thicket, 
Liquid  notes  of  lark  in  upland; 
Drowsy  hum  of  brown  bees  hunting 
For  the  flower's  hidden  treasure; 
Tinkle,  tankle  of  the  goat-belle, 
And  the  bleating  of  the  lambkins 
Gamboling  on  the  grassy  hill-slope, 
In  the  eve  as  they  came  homeward; 
And  the  stories  Pedro  told  her 
As  he  swung  her  little  hammock 
When  the  toil  of  day  was  ended. 
Told  her  of  his  dear  Italia, 
Of  the  grand,  old  picture  galleries 
Where  the  masters  speak,  tho'  silent; 

11 


Of  the  palace  halls  and  ruins 
Near  his  mother's  humble  cottage? 
Of  hie  father's  deeds  of  valor 
On  the  Spanish  field  of  battle, 
How  his  lost  cause    drove  in  exile 
Him  and  his  small  band  of  followers; 
How  he  sought  a  home  in   Italy, 
Married  there  a  peasant  maiden, 
One  who  knew  but  Want  and  Beauty, 
Nothing  but  a  straggling-  minstrel 
Singing  songs  and  making  sunshine; 
How  he  was  their  only  offspring, 
Spoiled  and  spanked  as  was  convenient: 
How  he  loved  to  hear  her  singing 
As  she  worked  within  her  garden, 
And  oft  tried  to  imitate  her 
With  his  feeble  childish  lispings ; 
How  his  father  painted  frescoes 
In  the  little  village  chapel, 
Haloed  saints  and  flying  cherubs 
In  bewildering  confusion. 
Then  the  plague  swept  o'er  the  country 
Striking  down  its  helpless  victims; 
Claimed  his  parents  as  a  ransom 
For  the  freedom  of  their  offspring. 
And  he  taught  her  all  the  old  songs 
Written  in  his  book  of  mem'ry, 
Peasant  songs  of  dear  Italia, 
War  songs  sung  by  his  old  father; 
And  the  weird  hymns  and  chantings 

12 


Of  his  own  neglected  helpmate. 
Taught  her  how  to  play  the  mandolin; 
And  before  she  knew  her  letters, 
She  could  sing  his  songs  and  play  them; 
Learned  to  sketch  the  scenes  around  her, 
As  one  born  to  Art  by  Nature. 


13 


CHAPTER  III. 

Once  there  came  a  straggling  artist 
To  the  hilla  of  Casa  Loma, 
Seeking  for  the  subtile  mys'try 
Of  their  ever  changing  colors; 
Of  their  half-tones  and  their  shadows 
Weaving  veils  of  hazy  distance 
O'er  the  drowsy,  dreamy  landscape. 
All  in  vain,  he  found  his  painting 
Feeble  grasps  of  helpless  fingers 
Reaching,  as  a  child,  for  rainbows; 
Yet  he  loved  the  scenes  as  fondly 
As  we  love  forbidden  pleasures. 
Loved  to  watch  the  sunset's  splendor 
Steal  along  the  yellow  hillsides, 
Filling  all  the  vale  with  crimson, 
As  tho'  Nature's  golden  chalice 
Brimmed  with  rosy  wine  of  day  dreams, 
Vintage  of  bright  hours'  fruition. 
Loved  the  errand,  old,  kingly  mountains 
Clad,  as  mete,  in  royal  purple. 
With  their  capes  of  snowy  ermine, 
And  their  golden  crowns  of  sunset. 
Loved  to  watch  the  sea-fog  stealing, 
As  white  spirits  of  the  ocean, 

14 


Thro'  the  marsh  lands  in  the  moonlight; 
Or  to  find,   before  the  sunrise, 
Inland  sea  o'er  hidden  valley; 
Hilltops  rising  from  the  white  mists, 
Isles  of  gold  in  seas  of  silver, 
Soon  to  vanish  with  day's  coming, 
Shrinking  from  the  sunlight  sceptres 
As  though  Moses'  rod  passed  o'er  them. 
But  the  hills  to  him  were  dearest, 
Warm  breasts  of  his  first  love,  Nature, 
Throbbing  with  her  hidden  secrets 
Only  told  to  favored  lovers, 
Those  who  rest  upon  her  bosom 
List'ning  to  each  quick'ning  heart  beat, 
Spellbound,  captive  to  its  music. 
Where  the  corredor  del  camino  * 
Moans  its  plaintive,  dove-like  love  song; 
And  the  huitacoche  f  answers 
From  the  distant  sumac  thicket, 
His  wee,  sombre-coated  bosom, 
Throbbing  with  wierd   echo-music, 
Like  the  answering  strains  of  harp  strings; 
Where  wheat  sparrows  tell  their  secrets 
In  the  sweetest  trilling  love  songs; 
Where  the  titmouse  swings  her  hammock, 
Formed  like  urn  of  woven  silver, 
Hanging  from  the  pending  branches 

*  During  the  mating  season  the  corredor  del 
camino,  or  road  runner,  sings  a  love  song  much 
resembling  the  moaning  of  a  dove. 

t    Huitacoche.    Indian  name  for  song  thrush. 

15 


OF  THE 


To  and  fro  like  swinging-  censer, 
Wafting  lullabies  to  heaven; 
Where  lithe  lizards,  clad  in  armor 
Of  bright,  iridescent  colors, 
Shimmer  in  the  mellow  sunlight, 
Half  asleep  on  lichen  cushions. 
E'en  the  whole  land  seems  to  slumber, 
Wrapped  in  hazy  folds  of  dream  lace; 
And  the  brown  bees  'mong  the  poppies 
Half  forget  their  busy  errands, 
And,  like  idle,  tippling  minstrels, 
Hum  their  drowsy,  reeling  measures. 
Dreamy  hills!  fit  place  for  dreaming — 
Hills  of  sleep,   this  dreamer  called  them, 
For  here  sleeps  the  Sphinx  of  Slumber,  * 
Hewn  from  out  the  solid  syenite 
By  the  mighty  hand  of  Nature; 
Lulled  to  sleep  by  foamy  billows 
Breaking  on  the  stony  seashore; 
Dreaming  of  Creation's  morning 
When  he  first  was  bound  in  slumber. 
Here  this  artist  found  contentment 
Safe  within  the  Sphinx's  shadow; 
And  no  wonder  that  long  after, 
When  his  lot  was  cast  in  turmoil 
Of  a  city's  ceaseless  striving, 
He  should  long  for  peace  and  quiet 
Here  within  the  arms  of  Nature, 

*    El  Moro  from  the  south  resembles  a  sleeping 
giant,    and  is  known  as  the  Sphinx  of  Slumber. 

16 


She  who  always  bade  him  welcome 

With  her  tawny  arms  wide  open 

To  receive  her  heartsick  lover, 

Like  a  prodigal  returning 

Prom  Art's  husks  or  drunken  banquet. 

Many  days  was  he  aweary 

Serving  Art's  capricious  bidding1, 

Prodded  by  the  goad  of  hunger, 

Hours  of  days  for  night's  short  pittance, 

Pittance  of  Art's  smiles  and  kisses, 

Sipping  dream-draughts  from  her  chalice, 

Rosy  wine  of  subtile  poison. 

After  ceaseless  toil  and  hunger, 

After  death's  fires  brightly   kindled, 

Hectic  flames  on  cheeks  long-  careworn, 

Came  she  then  as  tho'  in  pity 

Sippings  of  success  to  offer; 

But  the  tired  hand  dropped  helpless 

As  the  long  sought  cup  she  proffered. 

Then  Love  found  him  by  the  wayside, 

Pointed  out  a  hopeful  future, 

Led  him  into  paths  of  sunshine 

Where  a  little,   blue-eyed  maiden 

Through  her  golden  curls  peeped  shyly; 

Half  in  jest  and  half  in  earnest, 

Gave  our  dreamer  Hope's  bright  blossoms 

Plucked  from  Youth's  enchanting  by-way. 

But  the  frosts  of  Doubt  oft  blighted 

Leaf  and  bloom  of  Hope's  bright  blossom, 

Joy  and  pain  by  Fate  compounded 

17 


Into  life's  one  sweetest  potion; 
Honeyed  nectar  steeped  in  wormwood, 
Fit  draught  for  the  lips  of  angels, 
Cursed  dregs  for  the  tongues  of  demons. 
Dreamer's  heart,  in  disappointment. 
Hastened  to  the  arms  of  Nature; 
Tossed  upon  her  tawny  bosom. 
Hypocrite!     love  for  her  feigning, 
When  his  heart  was  all  another's — 
One  who  heard  of  his  sad  illness, 
Left  her  city  home  of  comfort, 
Cast  aside  Pride's  flaunting  mantle, 
Donned  habiliments  of  Mercy, 
And  o'er  thousand  miles  of  myet'ry 
Sped  she  on,  by  Love's  hand  guided, 
To  his  bedside  and  her  bridal. 
Heart  and  hand  are  tender  nurses; 
Hands  and  hearts,  when  joined  together, 
Turn  life's  shadows  into  sunshine. 
Stood  they  there  before  the  curate 
On  a  rug  by  her  hands  fashioned, 
Woven  with  her  tears  and  prayers 
For  this,  their  one  happiest  moment. 
She  clad  in  soft,  creamy  satin, 
And  the  flowers  on  her  bosom 
Were  the  fragrant  elder-blossoms. 
Thus  it  was  that  ever  after 
He  loved  them  the  best  of  flowers. 
From  the  creamy  eider-blossom 
Fruit  of  liquid  nectar  ripens, 

18 


JVMong  the  hills  of  Casa  Loma.' 


Dainty  flavor  of  sweetwaters 
Blended  with  the  tart  of  currants; 
White  pearls  crystalized  in  honey, 

Kindly  fruit  for  wayside  beggar. 
*=r 

And  as  from  the  sterile  soil 
Elder-bloom  to  sweet  fruit  ripens, 
So  the  fragrance  of  these  flowers 
Cast  a  spell  of  peaceful  blessing 
O'er  their  cozy  little  cottage, 
In  the  "City  of  the  Angels", 
Which  indeed  to  them  was  Heaven, 
Heaven  of  Love  'mong  those  who  loved  them. 


Then  again  Death's  flames  grew  brighter 
On  the  wan  cheek,  burning  slowly 
As  though  suffering  stirred  the  embers; 
So  they  left  the  little  studio, 
And  among  the  pine-clad  mountains 
Sought  the  higher  air,  balm  laden. 
From  the  mountains  to  the  foothills, 
Thus  like  one,  who,  lost  and  wand'ring, 
Finds  his  footsteps  circling  backward, 
Guided  by  a  hand  mysterious. 
E'en  it  seems  a  law  of  Heaven, 
Written  in  the  book  of  Nature, 
Circles  hold  the  power  of  progress. 
Every  morn  the  earth  returneth 
To  the  try  sting  place  of  sunshine; 
Planets  move  in  God  drawn  circles, 
Man  returns  to  his  Creator; 

20 


And  the  end  finds  the  beginning. 

Spirit  seeking  after  spirit, 

Dust  to  dust  always  returning; 

Cradle  tdfthe  Spring-time   flowers 

Coffin  Autumn's  scattered  petals. 

In  these  seeming  aimless  wand'rings 

Fortune  often  guides  our  footsteps; 

And   'twas  thus  these  circling  pilgrims 

Came  at  last  to  Casa  Loina; 

Pitched  their  tent  in  hope  and  sunshine. 

Soon  a  little  redwood  cabin 

Peeped  from  out  the  vines  and  shrubbery. 

*****#*#*       *       * 

And  when  next  the  elders  blossomed 
Came  a  rarer,  fairer  flower, 
By  the  hand  of  Heaven  given 
As  a  blessing  to  their  hearth-stone, 
Came  a  man-child,  full  of  promise, 
Good  of  form  and  fair  of  feature; 
Eyes,  as  blue  as  Eden  pansies 
Ringlets  as  the  gold  of  Ophir. 
Seemed  as  tho'  two  lovers  hunting, 
Found  a  tiny  Cupid  sleeping; 
And  in  love  made  wee  Love  captive, 
Who  in  turn  bound  fast  his  captors 
With  the  golden  links  or  child-love. 
Bright  his  curl-crown  shone  upon  him, 
Bright  his  future  beamed  with  promise, 
And  'twas  thus  they  called  him  Clarance, 
Clarence,  meaning  the  illustrious, 

21 


Name  born  of  their  great  hopes  for  him, 
Of  their  heart  hope  for  his  future. 
Happy  are  the  hearts  which  linger 
In  the  path  where  child-love  bloometh. 
Sped  too  soon  the  toddling  footsteps, 
Through  the  flow'ry  maze  of  childhood, 
To  the  bright  fields  of  Youth's  morning 
Where  our  little  Spanish  maiden 
Led  her  lambkins  'mong  the  poppies; 
And  he  loved  the  little  Nahda. 
Chased  they  butterflies  together, 
Hunted  bird's  nests  in  the  heather, 
Wove  wreaths  of  the  golden  poppies 
For  the  dear,  old,  white  goat  mother, 
Nahda's  faithful  foster-mother. 
Nahda  sketched  the  little  lambkins 
With  the  cunning  hand  of  genius — 
Genius  taught  by  good  Dame  Nature — 
And  'twas  she  who  first  awakened 
In  the  sleeping  heart  of  Clarence 
All  the  art-love  lying  dormant, 
Waiting  for  the  kiss  of  Springtime; 
And  'twas  Clarence  who  led  Nahda, 
Proud,  in  triumph  for  her  genius, 
To  his  father's  open  atelier, 
There  to  gain  his  admiration 
And  the  blessing  of  his  teaching. 
From  that  hour  her  life  expanded 

22 


OF  TH« 

VERSITY 


In  the  new  surrounding's  offered, 

And  she  shared  alike  with  Clarence 

All  the  father's  proud  affection; 

Came  and  went  as  impulse  led  her, 

To  the  old  or  to  the  new  home. 

How  her  art  bloomed  forth  in  promise! 

How  her  heart  with  home-love  blossomed! 

Lightly  danced  the  happy  hours 

To  the  rippling  strains  of  laughter. 

O'er  the  hills  with  Pedro  herding, 

O'er  the  hills  with  Clarence  sketching, 

To  the  trysting  place  of  twilight 

On  the  summit  of  El  Moro; 

To  where,  guarding  shady  fastness, 
Stands  the  grim,  grey  tower  of  Warland; 
To  Guajome's  Spanish  courtyard 
With  its  wealth  of  orange  blossoms; 
To  the  quaint,  old,  royal  Mission 
Wrapt  in  half  forgotten  mem'ries; 
To  the  ocean  with  its  my s 'try, 
And  its  sullen  stretch  of  sadness; 
Or  to  heights  of  Palomar, 
Where  the  pines  sing  Nature's  anthems; 
Hither,  thither,  where  Fate  beckoned, 
Heedless  of  the  coming  morrow. 
Nahda's  genius  bloomed  in  Clarence, 
As  his  love  within  her  blossomed. 
'Tis  the  same  old  rule  in  love-lore, 
Woman  counts  it  gain  in  losing 
Art  and  self  for  Love's  rewarding. 


And  'tis  best  so — Love  that's  drossless, 
Standing*  flames  of  fiery  passions, 
Tarnished  not  by  sordid  fingers; 
Bearing,  through  its  daily  usage, 
Still  the  "kingly  superscription" 
Is  mete  payment  for  Life's  losses. 

Late  one  eve  on  old  El  Moro, 
Aa  the  sun  sank  down  in  splendor 
To  his  couch  of  golden  turquoise, 
Clarence  told  her  of  the  sorrow 
Breaking  in  his  boyish  bosom ; 
How  the  morrow  brought  their  parting- 
He  to  sail  for  Art  and  Future, 
She  to  cheer  his  widowed  mother 
With  a  daughter's  true  devotion, 
Till  time  called  the  foster  brother 
Back  to  home  and  love  and  loving. 


24 


CHAPTER  IV. 

Nahda  knew  naught  of  church  dogmas, 
Worshipped  but  the  God  of  Nature; 
Found  Hie  footprints  'mong  the  blossoms, 
Heard  His  voice  among  the  rushes, 
Saw  the  tracings  of  His  fingers 
On  the  fern  fronds  in  the  canyon. 
She  had  also  heard  the  story 
Of  the  "Babe  within  the  manger", 
And  her  young  heart  yearned  in  pity 
O'er  the  cruel  crucifixion. 
From  the  two  she  drew  this  lesson, 
"That  to  gain  the  Life  Eternal 
She  must  walk  close  to  the  Savior, 
Thus  would  find  the  God  of  Nature"; 
Yet  this  love  for  God  and  Nature 
Brought  her  little  consolation 
For  the  sorrow  in  her  bosom. 
God  and  Nature  seemed  to  slumber 
Through  the  long,  dry  days  of  summer; 
Neither  brought  her  word  of  comfort 
For  the  hidden  grief  within  her. 
Turned  she  to  her  household  duties, 
Buried  self  in  thought  of  others, 
Smoothed  the  way  for  good  old  Pedro, 

25 


Gave  a  daughter's  love  and  service 

To  the  dear,  kind  foster-mother. 

E'en  the  tawny  hills  she  pitied, 

Her  helpless,  thirsty,   panting  hills, 

Athrob  with  palpitating  heat, 

Like  brown  deer  weary  from  the  chase. 


-  --. 


"To  Guajome's  Spanish  courtyard 
With  its  wealth  of  orange  blossoms. 


CHAPTER  V. 

'Twae  the  time  when  booms  were  booming 
That  Joe  Gifford  grew  ambitious, 
And  the  Rancho  del  Camino— 
Although  many  leagues  containing — 
Was  too  small  for  this  young  hopeful. 
Had  he  not  gained  one  and  twenty, 
And  was  he  not  his  own  master? 
So  he  hied  him  to  the  ci<y 
Real  estate  to  sell  to  "suckers"; 
Fitted  up  a  nobby  office, 
Bright  with  tea-store  green  and  scarlet, 
And  the  paint  was  not  through  drying 
Ere  the  "suckers"  came  by  dozens, 
Nibbling  at  the  choice  bait  offered. 
"Corner  lots  in  charming  Boomville, 
Only  eight  miles  from  the  courthouse, 
Reached  by  proposed  line  of  railway, 
Where  the  proposed  Southern  College 
And  the  proposed  Hotel  Eclat 
Will  propose  to  take  in  tourists, 
(Take  in  "suckers",  take  in  money); 
In  return  will  give  'em  climate, 
Give  'em  health-restoring  climate, 
Give  'em  stationary  climate" — 


That  is,  climate  that  won't  climb  it, 
Nor  won't  lower  'till  you  want  it; 
Balmy  climate  of  the  tropics, 
Climate  for  worn-out  consumptives, 
Climate  which  will  cure  the  asthma, 
Cure  the  mumps  and  rheumatism, 
Cure,  in  fact,  all  ills  and  ailings; 
Climate  which  will  make  you  pious, 
Climate  which  will  make  you  wealthy, 
Climate  which  is  good  for  lying. 
Give  'em  views  of  sea  and  mountain, 
Give  'em  visions  of  the  future, 
Give  'em  choice  lots  on  the  main   street, 
Lots  which  promise  soon  to  double; 
Lots  of  promises  he  gives  'em, 
(True  in  one  sense — not  in  grammar); 
But  the  promise  of  more  "suckers" 
Sometimes  makes  the  trade  a  bargain; 
For  the  festive  agent  pcmders 
O'er  the  maxim  and  reads  this  wise, 
"Do  to  others  as  you're  done   by." 
Yet  for  invalids  (so  thoughtful) 
Sub-divides  up  wildcat  ranches 
Into  "to  be"  climate  cities; 
Land  which  truly  is  so  worthless 
Naught  'twill  raise  but  suckers'  shekels; 
Lots  so  steep  you  have  to  stake  'em, 
Or  they'd  slip  into  the  canyon, 
Where  if  you  could  plow  a  furrow 
It  at  noon  would  cast  a  shadow. 

29 


Other  lots  out  in  tide  water. 
As  if  they'd  got  tired  of  waiting 
For  the  Flume,  and,  being  thirsty, 
Slipped  down  hill  and  had  to  stay  there; 
For  although  their  boast  was  climate 
Yet  they  could  not  dim'  it  from  there. 
Gifford  picked  up  eighty  acres 
On  the  railroad  at  the  seaside; 
Bought  it  for  one  thousand  dollars — 
Partly  cash,  but  mostly  promise — 
From  the  shepherd,  Pedro  Gomez. 
Pedro  knew  scant  ways  of  trick'ry, 
Held  a  promise  as  though  sacred; 
Gifford,  wise  in  ways  of  cunning, 
Weak  in  all  true  mental  merit, 
Paid  each  tardy,  unpaid  promise 
With  another  brighter  promise, 
Till  the  glamour  of  great  promise 
Crowned  his  every  act  with  promise, 
Till  this  promising  young  fellow 
Filled  the  air  with  glorious  promise. 
In  his  smile  a  rainbow  fluttered, 
At  whose  base  the  dupes  dug  often 
For  the  pot  of  hidden  treasure. 
"Mira  Mar"  he  called  his  purchase, 
"Eye  of  the  Sea",  to  blind  their  seeing; 
Not  the  first  time  good  old  Spanish 
Has  by  Greed  been  used  for  blinding, 
As  enticing  bait  to  tourists 
Seeking  after  things  romantic, 

30 


For  a  promise  full  of  promise. 

Gilford's  acres  soon  bore  harvest 

In  a  maze  of  whitened  lot  stakes; 

At  the  corners  in  bright  letters 

Shone  the  name  of  street  and  alley — 

"Victoria  Place",  "Boulevarde  Royal", 

"Elm  Street",  'Tine  Street",  "Windsor  Terrace", 

"Maple,"  "Market"  "City  Plaza"— 

All  so  full  of  thrifty  promise 

That  it  spread  in  epidemic, 

Till  every  seeker  after  promise 

Had  been  stricken  with  the  fever. 

What  cared  they  for  perfect  title 

When  half  pay  gave  perfect  pleasure, 

Or  an  advance  from  some  other 

Kept  the  title  full  of  promise? 

Gifford  shrewdly  took  advantage 

Of  each  hastily  made  transaction 

To  salt  down  his  ill  got  earnings 

Into  other  hidden  channels. 

In  the  small  spring  at  the  roadside 

Poured  he  sulphur,  put  in  horse  shoes, 

Doctored  it  till  taste  and  odor 

Made  it  famous  as  a  tonic. 

And  the  band  played  in  the  Plaza, 

Calling  crowds  to  free  lunch  tables, 

While  in  line  the  buyers  waited 

For  their  chance  at  speculation. 

Pedro,  in  anticipation 

Of  the  fruiting  days  of  promise, 

31 


Mortgaged  all  the  rich  home  acres 
To  secure  Joe  Gifford's  venture, 
And  thus  save  himself  and  Nahda 
Till  Joe  Gifford's  promise  ripened. 
Generous  Pedro,  never  doubting1, 
Did  not  feel  the  strands  grow  tighter, 
As  this  human  spider  wove  them 
Back  and  forth  across  his  doorway. 
And  'twas  thus  he  died,  still  trusting 
In  the  one  he  had  befriended, 
In  the  one  who  k*k«-  brought  ruin 
To  the  home  of  Pedro  Gomez. 
In  his  illness  called  he  Nahda, 
"Nahda,  Nahda,  little  lambkin, 
Come  thou  here  within  my   bosom 
Where  so  often  I  have  held  thee. 
Now  I  go  to  distant  pastures, 
Pastures  full  of  Heavenly  promise. 
Oh!  that  thou  might'st  journey  thither; 
We  would  wa-tk-the  fields  together, 
Find  the  long  lost  mother  waiting 
For  her  tardy  love  and  lambkin." 
Then  delirious,  called  he  to  her, 
Drew  from  out  its  secret  hiding 
A  stiletto — keen  as  malice, 
Gave  it  to  his  weeping  daughter 
Saying,   "Take  it,  keep  it,  Nahda; 
In  the  life  of  every   woman 
Comes  a  time  when  the  stiletto 
May  take  place  of  sire  or  brother 


To  avenge  insulted  honor. 

Wolves  grow  daring  at  the  lamb-fold, 

When  the  tired  shepherd  sleepeth. 

Let  Clarence  be  thy  foster-brother, 

And  be  thou  hia  mother's  hand-maid; 

And  if  in  an  hour  of  trouble, 

Thou  need  one  to  shield,   protect  thee, 

Seek  thou,  my  good  friend,  Joe  Gifford. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

News  of  Clarence  coming  homeward 
Brought  again  the  tardy  roses 
To  the  cheek  of  Nahda  Gomez. 
On  El  Moro  kept  she  vigil, 
Watching  for  the  passing  steamer 
That  would  bring  again  her  lover 
From  Gate  of  Gold  to  Gate  of  Silver. 
*      *       ******** 
Just  a  grey  speck  on  the  ocean 
With  its  trailing  smoky  streamer, 
Creeping  slowly,  scarcely  moving  — 
How  her  heart  beat  wild,  impatient, 
Fluttering  with  love-born  pinions. 
Brave  is  rustic  love,  impulsive, 
Heedless  of  the  World's  approval, 
Caring  naught  for  laws  of  loving, 
Guided,  by  Love's  intuition. 


Once  again  they  roamed  together 
O'er  the  flow'ry  hills  of  promise, 
Hearts  attuned  to  happy  lark-song. 
Clarence,  though  a  man  in  stature, 
Yet  still  kept  within  his  bosom 
All  the  boyish  love  for  Nature, 

34 


All  the  tender  love  for  Nahda. 
Oft  they  journeyed  to  the  mountains, 
To  the  little  Indian  village 
Where  the  Agua  Caliente  * 
Pours  its  healing,  thermal  waters. 
There  they  found  an  aged  Indian — 
Pablo,  once  a  mighty  chieftain — 
Who,  a  seer  among  his  people, 
Told  the  Past,  the  Present,  Future, 
As  it  were  a  scroll  before   him; 
Told  of  how  past   generations 
Held  these  springs  against  invaders; 
How  the  padres  blessed  these  waters 
As  a  gift  unto  their  children; 
How  the  cunning  white  man  halted 
At  their  brink,   with  compromises 
For  the  rich  leagues  they  had  stolen; 
How  today  the  white  man,  spying. 
Comes  to  seek  these  thermal  waters, 
And.  ere  many  moons  have  vanished, 
Will  deprive  them  of  their  birthright. 
Then  a  plaintive  wail  of  anguish 
Rose  upon  the  desert  stillness, 
As  a  lost  soul,  in  the  darkness 
Calling  to  the  God  of  Mercy, 
"Save  us!     Save  us!     Father,  save  us! 
Save  thy  homeless,   helpless  children." 
Nahda  conned  their  folk-lore  secrets 

*  The  Indians  living  at  these  springs  are  known 
as  the  Agua  Caliente  and  at  the  present  moment 
white  men  are  trying  to  drive  them  from  their  homes 

35 


For  the  willing-  ear  of  Clarence; 

How    the  Agua    Calientea 

Have  an  old  and  weird  legend — 

Woven  in  a  woof  of  fancy 

By  the  weaver,  Superstition — 

How  a  chieftain's  daughter,  Deros, 

Was  forsaken  by  her  lover, 

Thrown  aside  as  tattered  garment, 

As  a  garment  worn  and  faded. 

In  the  heart  of  every  woman 

Nests  the  cooing  dove  and   eagle: 

When  the  dove  spreads  forth  her  pinions 

Naught  remains  but  "bird  of  hatred," 

Screaming  loud,  demanding  vengeance; 

And  'tis  thus  that  Deros  follows 

Every  step  of  recreant  lover, 

Watching  with  an  eye  of  vengeance, 

Meting  out  just  retribution: 

Many  other  folk-lore  lessons 

Learned  they  from  the  lips  of  Pablo; 

And  the  grand  old  Indian's  spirit 

Found  an  echo  in  the  bosom 

Of  brave  Nahda'a  savage  nature. 

How  she  longed  to  free  this  people 

From  the  merc'less  white  man's  thraldom. 

Through  her  sympathy  and  birthright, 

That  half  taint  of  Indian  nature, 

She  became  as  Pablo's  daughter, 

As  a  priestess  for  his  people; 

And  'twas  thus  his  hidden  secrets 

36 


\ 


m 

&$&SK 

§31  ^v^  -1^1  ^ 
%^i^t^lr 

>:V.  *"rV     ^'   "¥ 


^r~- 
4> 


nr- 


"To  where,  guarding  shady  fastness, 
Stands  the  grim,  grey  Tower  of  Warland.1 
(Home  of  the  Author.) 


Found  safe  hiding  in  her  bosom. 
As  of  old  the  Egyptian  priestess 
Scattered  myrrh  on  glowing  embere, 
And  from  out  the  rising  vapors 
Fashioned  forms,  of  weird  myst'ry; 
So  o'er  hills,  by  sunset  kindled, 
Nature  casts  wild  herbs,  sweet-scented, 
And  from  out  the  hazy  heat-mist 
Rise  ethereal,  subtile  dream-forms; 
Dream-forms,   wherein  Nature's  children 
Hear  an  answer  from  their  mother. 
The  earth  beneath  and  sky  above  them 
Sharing  each  its  hidden   secret, 
Spirit  forms  of  rising  vapor, 
Whisperings  of  fragrant  flowers, 
Meanings  of  the  winds  about  them, 
And  the  silence  of  the  stars — 
All  in  praise  to  that  Great  Spirit 
Who  hath  made  them  for  his  children. 
*********       *       * 
Clarence  found  the  long   vacation 
Short  enough  for  love  and  loving; 
And  it  was  with  greatest  effort 
Tore  he  from  the  arms  of  Nahda; 
But  full  soon,  fond  Art's  caresses 
Wooed  him  to  the  heights  of  promise; 
And  yet  oit  from  Paris'  salons 
Looked  he  back,  with  heartsick  longing, 
For  the  hills  of  Casa  Loma, 
And  his  little  Spanish  sweetheart. 

38 


From  the  twilight  of  his  pictures 
Beamed  the  tender  eyes  of  Nahda. 
Every  fibre  of  his  canvas 
Seemed  to  breathe  her  very  presence. 
Wove  he  art  and  heart  together, 
Warp  and  woof  so  closely  blended, 
None  could  tell  the  one's  beginning, 
None  could  tell  the  other's  ending. 
Came  her  letters,  bearing  comfort, 
Pull  of  faith  in  his  great  future, 
Full  of  love  and  love's  true  brav'ry; 
Scantily  hiding  her  heart-longing. 
After  while  they  came  less  frequent, 
Soon  no  message  came  to  cheer  him 
From  his  love  across  the  water. 
Still  he  wrote,  but  heard  no  tidings, 
Still  his  heart  called  out  in  anguish; 
Called  in  vain,  for  silence  answered. 
Paltry  seemed  the  hard  won  medals, 
Lonely  grew  the  life  about  him; 
For  loneliest  of  all  earth's  places 
Are  loveless  hearts  where  crowds  assemble. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

Tho'  Joe  Gifford  brought  sad  ruin 
To  dead  Pedro's  little  holdings — 
Driving  Nahda  from  her  childhome — 
Yet  so  sly  this  cunning   villain, 
Smooth  of  tongue  and   hypocritic, 
Still  he  posed  as  her  protector; 
Blinded  still  the  eyes  of  Nahda, 
Wept  with  her  o'er  her  misfortune, 
In  confidence  told  all  his  troubles, 
Till  her  poor  heart  warmed  with  pity 
For  the  sorrow  in  his  bosom. 
Little  Nahda's  trust  grew  greater, 
As  his  meshes  bound  her  tighter : 
Told  she  him,  her  love  for  Clarence; 
And  he,  smiling,  gave  false   blessing, 
While  within  his  heart  in  secret 
Hissed  he  curses  on  his  rival, 
Curses  from  his  heart  of  passion; 
Yet  poor  Nahda  never  doubted. 
Was  he  not  the  soul  of  honor? 
Came  he  not  from  the  Vale  of  Virtue? 
Where  temptations  prove  abortive, 
And  the  trusty  maid  and  matron 

40 


Wade  through  blood  to  save  their  honor? 
Was  he  not  the  people's  chosen, 
Chosen  by  his  voting  kinsmen 
For  a  place  of  trust  and  honor? 
Little  knew  she  how  he'd  trampled 
Every  trust  beneath  his  footsteps, 
Every  promise  violated; 
And  how  their  own  tax  grown   coffers 
Had  been  squandered  on  his  kinsmen, 
Or  been  bartered  for  a   foll'wing. 
Trusting  still  imagined   honor, 
Shared  she  all  her  secrets  with  him; 
And  he  gave  her  golden  trinkets, 
Each  as  link  in  passion's  fetters. 
Followed  he  as  though  her  shadow, 
Fawning  o'er  her  as  a  spaniel, 
Came  and  went  at  beck  or  bidding, 
Ever  ready  for  her  errands; 
Posted  he  each  tender  missive, 
Brought  he  every  precious  message; 
Till  her  love  for  Clarence  blossomed 
Into  warm  respect  for  Gifford. 
Soon  the  letters  were  not  posted, 
Soon  the  prying  eyes  looked  inward 
Seeking  for  each  hidden  secret; 
Building  up,  with  stones  of  malice, 
A  foundation  for  his  lying. 
To  the  name  of  fair  Belle  Creighton— 
Borrowed  from  a  stolen  message 
Wherein  Clarence  wrote  to  Nahda 

41 


Of  his  cousin's  coming  nuptials — 

Added  he  a  startling  story 

Of  the  faithlessness  of  Clarence; 

Carried  it  in  ghoulish  triumph 

To  the  ears  of  little  Nahda. 

Pressed  her  hand  upon  the  dagger, 

Flashed  her  eye  with  burning  anger, 

At  this  insult  to  her  lover. 

Gifford,  trembling,  begged  her  mercy; 

Wept,  that  he  should  bring  such   sorrow 

To  the  heart  he  loved  so  dearly; 

Offered  her  his  consolation. 

But  she  sprang,  a  tigress,  from  him 

To  her  wanderings  in  the  mountains; 

Safe  within  El  Moro's  cavern 

Hid  she  with  her  searing  sorrow. 


42 


JtiitSiXX    1 

77^,* 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

Clarence  cast  aside  his  brushes, 

Cast  aside  the  dross  of  glory 

For  the  lost  gold  of  his  loving, 

For  the  treasure  he  had  hidden 

'Mong  the  hills  of  Casa  Loma, 

Wondering  if  aught  had  stolen 

That,  which  seemed  to  him  so  precious. 

Little  knew  he  of  the   robber 

Who  had  sought  to  steal  and  tarnish; 

Little  knew  the  lonely  Nahda 

How  the  cowardice  of  Gifford 

Shrank  from  touching  that  rich  treasure — 

That  pure,  drossless  gold  of  nature — 

Through  his  fear  of  Nahda'a  dagger, 

Hastened  he  across  the  water) 

Storm-tossed  in  his  soul  and  body, 

Buffeted  with  doubts,  misgivings; 

Yearning  for  a  hopeful  message, 

Dreading  lest  it  bring  him  sorrow. 

*********       *       * 

At  the  spring  in  Shadow   Canyon 

Found  they  Clarence  Cooper  dying, 

Dying  from  its  poisoned  waters; 

And  Joe  Giffords  name  was   whispered, 

43 


Lip  to  ear  by  soft-voiced  scandal. 
On  the  summit  of  El  Moro, 
As  'twas  mete  for  him  who  loved  it, 
He  was  buried  at  the  twilight 
'Mongst  his  scenes  of  inspiration. 


44 


CONCLUSION. 

Deros,  in  El  Moro's  cavern, 

With  her  grey   head  bowed   in  sorrow, 

Sways  her  body,  moaning,  chanting: 

"Down  in  a  cold,  dark  grave 

Where  the  slimy  worm  doth  crawl, 

Winding  its  length  through  the  musty  damp, 

Where  the  drops  of  water  fall, 

Dripping,  dripping  in  monotone, 

Alone  I     Alone!     Alone!     Alone! 

Hidden  beneath  the  cold  grey  stone, 

Forgotten!     Alone!     Alone!     Alone!  " 

Clarence,  waking  from  his  stupor, 

In  the  bowels  of  the  mountain, 

Hears  and  sees  the  aged  Deroa. 

Deros  points  her  trembling  finger, 

And,  with  voice  of  scorn,  she  hisses, 

"Mortal  from  the  land  of  living, 

I  am  Deros,  the  Avenger. 

He,  who  on  a  girl's  heart  tramples, 

He,  who  blights  a  girl's  affection, 

From  my  hand  receives  no  pity; 

In  my  vengeance  finds  no  mercy. 

I  have  seen  a  poor  girl  wand'ring 

O'er  the  hills  of  thorny  cactus, 

45 


'Mong  the  briars  in  the  canyon, 
Wandering  as  if  demented. 
On  her  face  was  anguish  written; 
And  her  locks,  which  once  were  raven, 
Now  are  white  with  snows  of  sorrow; 
While  within  her  throbbing   bosom 
Burns  the  impress  of  your  footstep — 
Nahda  Gomez'  heart  is  broken. 

CLARENCE : 

Be  ye  saint  or  be  ye  demon, 
Tho'  no  mercy  will  be  granted. 
By  the  powers  of  light  and  darkness, 
By  my  love  for  Nahda  Gomez, 
Tho'  my  life  should  be  the  forfeit, 
Demon  Deros,  thou  art  lying! 

DEROS: 

Tho'  my  heart  be  barred  to  mercy, 
Yet  it  opens  wide  to  reaeon. 
Swear  ye  by  your  love  for  Nahda, 
When  your  heart  is  all  another's? 
When  your  marriage  with  Belle  Creighton 
Was  but  stopped  by  Death's  intrusion? 

CLARENCE: 

Demon,  is  your  eye  so  evil 

It  can  see  but  sin,  in  mortal? 

Else  you  might  have  read  the  sorrow 

In  my  heart,  with  tear-drops  written; 

How  I  sought  for  Nahda  Gomez, 

But  in  vain  was  all  my  seeking. 

When  you  read  the  hearts  of  mortals, 

46 


You  should  strive  to  read  more  careful; 

Not  mistake  the  love  of  kindred 

For  the  marriage  vows  of  true  love — 

This  Belle  Creighton  is  my  cousin, 

And  her  heart  is  all  another's — 

One  she  loves  with  my  approval. 

As  a  miser  loves  his  money, 

As  a  pagan  loves  his  idol, 

As  a  mother  loves  her  first-born, 

So  my  heart  loves  Nahda  Gomez; 

Yet  I  would  not  seek  thy  mercy 

For,  since  lost  is  Nahda  Gomez, 

I  defy  the  plagues  of  Hades." 

Nahda's  heart,  half  dead  with  sorrow, 
Found  in  tears  a  long  sought  blessing, 
As  a  thirsty  land  in  summer 
Finds  new  life  in  falling  raindrops. 
Fell  the  veil,  her  face  disclosing, 
Fell  her  grey  head  on  his  bosom; 
Sobbing  like  a  child  forsaken, 
Sobbed  and  moaned  like  distant  water; 
Pleading  for  his  love  and   mercy, 
Cringing,  craving  for  his  pardon. 
Told  him  of  her  days  of  waiting, 
Weeks  and  months  for  his  returning; 
How  Joe  Gifford,  through  his  lying, 
Caused  her  trusting  heart  to  doubt  him; 
How  she  wandered  to  the  mountains, 
Sought  a  home  among  the  Indians; 

47 


There  she  found  the  herb  of   slumber, 

Made  a  draught  to  quench  her  mem'ry, 

Seeking  thus  the  Past  to  bury. 

After  hours  of  dreamless  slumber, 

To  the  living  Past  awakened, 

Found  she  could  not  live  without  him, 

Would  return  and  seek  his    pity; 

If  not  granted,  would  seek  slumber, 

Drink  enough  of  the  solution 

To  cause  death — and  thus  forget  him; 

How  she  found  him  in  the  garden 

Talking  with  the  fair  Belle  Creighton, 

Speaking  of  the  coming  nuptials; 

And  her  hair  turned  white  in  anguish, 

And  the  fires  died  in  her  bosom. 

Then  Hate  whispered,  "Love's  departed; 

Drive  him  from  his  golden  castle, 

From  the  heart  of  this  Belle  Creighton"; 

How  she  sought  to  make  him  slumber, 

Thus  forget  his  new  allegiance; 

Wake  to  love  her  as  of  olden. 

So  the  little  spring  was  poisoned, 

And  his  mother  found  him  lying, 

Seeming  dead,  within  the  canyon; 

How  they  did  as  he'd    requested, 

Buried  him  at  hour  of  twilight 

On  the  summit  of  El  Moro; 

How  she  hid  and  watched  them  leaving, 

Then  worked  fast  to  gain  his  body, 

Seeking  thus  to  steal  affection, 

48 


Knowing,  after  hours  of  sleeping-, 
He  would  surely  soon  awaken. 
All  of  this  and  more  she  told  him, 
Sobbing,  told  and  asked  for  mercy. 
Thro'  her  enowy  hair  of  sorrow 
Ran  the  tears  oi  his  forgiveness; 
Kissing,  promised  none  should  ever 
Share  the  secret  of  his  dying. 
Then  she  led  him  out  the  cavern, 
And  adown  the  winding  pathway 
Where  the  little  funeral  cortege 
Passed,  not  many  hours  before  them. 
Closer  to  his  heart  he  drew  her, 
Fearing  she  might  vanish  from  him; 
Whispered  words  of  love  and  comfort — 
Still  she  sobbed  and  prayed  in  silence, 
Thanking  God  for  all  His  goodness, 
Worshiping  thro'  her  own  idol. 
Down  the  narrow,  winding  pathway, 
Through  the  silv'ry  morning  moonlight, 
On  and  on  toward  Casa  Loma, 
Through  the  maze  of  sage  and  buckwheat, 
Pressed  their  eager,  hopeful  footsteps. 

THE   END. 


49 


, 


THIS  BOOK  IS  DUE  ON  THE  LAST  DATE 
STAMPED  BELOW 


AN  INITIAL  FINE  OF  25  CENTS 

WILL  BE  ASSESSED  FOR  FAILURE  TO  RETURN 
THIS  BOOK  ON  THE  DATE  DUE.  THE  PENALTY 
WILL  INCREASE  TO  SO  CENTS  ON  THE  FOURTH 
DAY  AND  TO  $1.OO  ON  THE  SEVENTH  DAY 
OVERDUE, 


AUG    6   1941 


%^r*VBy 


**m 


&&i  ' 

\:yf 


i  •* 


